


Lost Things

by HalcyonStars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Castiel, College Student Dean, Fluff, M/M, Pining Castiel, inspired by a novel, well an excerpt of a novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5719141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalcyonStars/pseuds/HalcyonStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which an inconspicuous looking book and the innocently troublesome colour of Autumn leaves teach Castiel that his life is a rom-com, and that losing things isn’t that bad after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perdizzion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdizzion/gifts).



> Inspired by Good Omens. Let's thank Anathema's clumsiness for this, shall we? Oh, and this is for you, Citra, because I said I'd write you something :)

The trouble with trying to find a chestnut coloured book, amongst yellow and orange and chestnut leaves, in the ambiguously chestnut light of dawn, was that you couldn’t.

It wasn’t there.

And that Castiel was sure of. He tried every method of searching that he knew of – and having ample childhood experiences in which certain siblings hid his most cherished belongings, he knew many of them.

There was the systematic and strict sectioning of the ground, before scouring every segment with eagle-like eyes. There was the childlike jumping through piles of leaves in hopes of unearthing the brown book. There was the slipshod poking at the frond under-foot. There was the nonchalant strolling through the trees and peeking out of the corner of his eyes. There was the retracing of his steps.

Castiel, resigned and desperate, even tried the one which every starry-eyed fibre of his being _begged_ him to, which included dramatically throwing his arms into the air and giving up, sitting down, and letting his gaze fall naturally on a patch of earth which, if he had been in any decent fairy-tale, should have held the book.

It didn’t.

Because Castiel wasn’t a prince in a fairy-tale… he was just a silly boy who lost his book. And not sheer dumb luck nor careful precision would help him now.

Castiel huffed an aborted sob into his blue woollen gloves, standing out against the brownness of it all in a way he wished his tiny brown leather book would.

He laid down into the foliage, the crunch of crispy deciduous leaves echoing through the naked tree tops. Looking up at a lone leaf still clinging to a frail and thin branch of a tree, he thought that if it managed to defy the odds and hang on, then he surely could find his book.  

A strong gust of wind blew, and the leaves on the floor rustled as they erratically rushed and swirled around Castiel’s still body.

The last leaf fell.

This time Castiel didn’t bother to hold in his cry of frustration, of over a year’s work – of his sketches and artwork that he put endless hours and effort into – all lost. He rolled over and slammed his fists into the ground petulantly, relishing the crunches of the leaves snapping and crackling beneath his hands. It gave him, sadly, some pitiful semblance of power in his hopelessness. He rolled over, face to the sky, trying not to cry.

He brought his coat up to his nose and sniffled into the collar, telling himself it was because of the cold and the consequent running of his nose, and not the heartbreak.

“You okay?”

Castiel shot up as a voice beckoned his attention. Somewhere far from the forefront of Castiel’s mind, he thought he ought to be embarrassed by his tantrum – which surely was humiliating enough for his own reflection, let alone having been witnessed by someone else. But for now, it was easier to address the approaching figure than his paroxysm of admittedly misplaced ill-temper.

“Dean?” Castiel questioned unsurely.

Dean nodded, all bright smiles and green eyes, tiny flecks around his pupils like aureate leaves spiralling in the wind. He wore scuffed steel-cap boots and a green woolen scarf looped around his neck twice.

Dean walked up to him, leaves breaking under his feet like a million tiny insects chirping, and Castiel had the mind to straighten his back, cross his legs – looked more civilised like this, he thought.

It was unwarranted, Castiel realised, when Dean flopped ungracefully onto the leaf layered soil, legs kicked out casually.

Dean unzipped his brown leather jacket, and from beneath it, pulled out a brown leather book.

Castiel gasped as he looked at the book.

It was wrapped shut with a fraying black cord which looped in an inelegant bow – which was really too shambolic to be called anything more than a knot – at the fore edge and once more around the spine.

It was Castiel’s lost book.   

“I was walking through last night when I saw it,” Dean said, handing the book over to Castiel who accepted it gently and hugged it to his chest like he was holding a newborn child.

It smelled of musky old leather and early morning dew, and Castiel couldn’t help but hug Dean with one arm as he clutched his unorthodox sketchpad to his heart with the other.

“Dean, I cannot thank you enough–” he paused for a moment. “But how did you know it was mine?”

Dean’s cheeks flushed an irrefutable shade of red, much like some of the livelier looking flora scattered around them.

“I walk through here a lot, and I always see you, hunched over with your nose in this book, scratching away.”

Dean tugged his beany down to cover his red-nibbed ears, flattening his dirty blonde hair to his forehead in the process. The smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose stood out against their redness, kissed by the cold.

Said freckles had darkened and grown since Castiel had last seen and counted them – an opportunity that passed fleetingly, only while Dean helped a flustered freshman Castiel pick up his books from the floor when he’d tripped over his own two left feet. Dean had smiled at him and helped him stack his books, and Castiel, completely new to high school and hormones and attraction in general, had been completely enamoured.

From that day Castiel had mostly only ever seen Dean in the halls on his way to class or with his friends in the cafeteria.

Nearly the whole school had a crush on Dean Winchester, and Castiel was no exception. 

But Castiel hadn’t seen him in two years since Dean went off to college. Until now, that was.

“I saw you accidently drop it last night. I was going to give it back but you were already walking home,” Dean continued.

“Oh. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean nodded, settling back into the fray of ginger-bay, his hands burying into tawny and terra-cotta leaves as they parted and made way for his hands, as if nature itself was moved by the very presence of Dean Winchester.

Or perhaps that was simple physics and Castiel’s persistent crush.  

“I – ah, I had a look,” Dean told him, and this time it was Castiel’s turn to blush. “You’re stuff is really good.”

Castiel shook his head in protest. “I appreciate the flattery, but it’s uncalled for. I’m really mediocre at best.”

“Believe me, I don’t lie. When I say your stuff is good, I really mean it. You’re a regular Jack Dawson, but without the naked chicks and _way_ better.”

Castiel smiled as he trailed his gloved fingers down the weary leather spine of his book. Looking into Dean’s eye, he thought that he should really start working in colour. “Titanic. Really, Dean?”

“I haven’t seen it or anything…” Dean stuttered out. “I mean, Sam makes me watch it with him. He’s the fan, not me.”

“Ah,” Castiel’s breathed disbelievingly, but kindly didn’t mention Dean’s two-sided contradictory answer.

“Well,” Dean said, scratching the back of his neck over the mounds of his scarf, “I better be getting back before my folks start wondering where I got off to.”

Dean stood, dusting off leaves and pine-needles from his jeans before offering his hand to Castiel. Castiel took it, stumbling to his feet.  

“Oh, will I see you around?”

“I’m counting on it.” Dean smiled.

A cold gust of wind blew – one that reminded Castiel that winter just around the corner, and one that sent wayward leaves running from its bite. Castiel shivered violently and bit down on his purple lips, damning the weather and his own foolishness for not wearing warmer clothes.

“And hey,” Dean said, tugging off his scarf and yanking it aggressively when it got stuck around his head. His beany was thrown to the floor in the process, but Dean left it there in favour of wrapping his scarf around Cas’ neck, looping it once and keeping the two tasselled ends in his hands. “Maybe you can draw _me_ some time, or uh… paint me. _Paint me like one of your French girls_ ,” Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively, tugging lightly on the ends of the scarf.

“And you say you’re not a fan.”

The coquettish smirk fell from Dean’s face in an instant. “Shut up, Cas,” he said, bending down to pick up his beanie, brushing it off before placing it back atop his trodden hair.

Castiel grinned, and Dean shook his head as brushed imaginary lint from the impeccably clean scarf, flattening it down to Castiel’s chest with every sweep of his large hands. Dean hummed and stepped away.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

“See you soon, Cas.”

 

Once Castiel sure Dean was out of sight – and not likely to witness another mortifying display on Castiel’s behalf – he let his giddiness show.   

He had aimed for fairy-tale, and had gotten cheesy rom-com instead. But alas, he had also gotten his book.

Cas kicked at the piles of leaves beneath his feet, smile etched onto his face as he jumped through burnet mountains like a fool. _An exceptionally sanguine fool,_ Castiel thought to himself.

Just as one slapdash foot careened through a restful pile of leaves, Castiel saw a glimmer of bronze out of the corner of his eye. It was quite unlikely – and rather ironic – that against a backdrop of yellow and orange and chestnut leaves, in the ambiguously chestnut light of dawn, that Castiel would find a bronze coloured amulet, buried in the warm undertones of earth. It was tiny, and should be harder to find than a respectable sized brown leather book.

And yet, in the Byzantine mosaic of copper and ecru and all shades of the ephemeral Fall leaves, the small horned amulet was as clear to Castiel as a lighthouse in the black of night.

He picked it up by its black leather cord, inspecting it for any blemishes. It was quite clean – well, as clean as any decade old charm could be expected to be. Dean must have accidently dropped it when he gave Castiel his scarf. Castiel looked up ready to call for Dean. He was nowhere in sight and presumably on his way home.

Castiel laughed at the irony of the situation, and tucked the amulet carefully into his coat pocket.

He endeavoured to return it to Dean, perhaps tomorrow, on his morning walk through the woods.

 

 


End file.
